The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection

Summary

The first novel in this bundle, Survivors of the Chaos, begins in dystopia with the Chaos and builds up to the first Earth colony ships destined for nearby stars. The second, Sing a Zamba Galactica, begins with Humans’ first contact with ETs, the two joining forces to battle another ET group bent on conquest, and ends with Humans saving an unusual collective intelligence, Swarm. The third, Come Dance a Cumbia...with Stars in Your Hand!, provides evidence that we cannot ignore the lessons of history as Humans battle one of their own who wants to control all near-Earth space.

The three novels together provide a vision of Humans' future in the galaxy that is entertaining as well as provocative sci-fi that will provide the reader with many hours of exciting entertainment.

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The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection - Steven M. Moore

Reviews

Novels

In Homage to the Grand Master, Isaac Asimov

Survivors of the Chaos. During the years 2126 to 2133, society passes through the social singularity known as the Chaos. Traditional empires like the U.S. and E.U. break into smaller units. Even China collapses. However, huge multinational companies, expanding across the old Earth empires and into the solar system, become the glue that holds things together, contracting bands of mercenaries to brutally maintain order to ensure their profits. Three individuals rise above this modern hell. Mercenary Zeb Lane is a reluctant but avenging warrior. Astrophysicist Jon Silent Eagle Lewis struggles to prevent the destruction of ET artifacts. And mob enforcer Billy Clark finds meaning for his life aboard a starship bound for 82 Eridani.

Sing a Zamba Galactica. This epic sci-fi thriller continues where Survivors of the Chaos ends. Covering centuries of humanity’s future in the Galaxy, the events of this novel take readers on a star-hopping ride from the discovery of ETs on the 82 Eridani colony planet New Haven; to battles against the evil Tali on the Delta Pavonis colony planet Sanctuary, and Earth; to the development of FTL travel; and to the healing of Swarm, a giant, composite intelligence in the form of a globular cluster. Imaginative extrapolations of current science and technology are second only to the human and ET characters and interstellar space scenes.

Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand! This sci-fi thriller completes The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy, a vision of the future that is troubling, inspiring, and astounding. If you thought Humans and their ET friends would live happily in the home galaxy’s near-Earth space after Singer saved Swarm, you are wrong. This novel shows why we always have to be vigilant against those whose thirst for power becomes an obsession. The protagonists—the tough, brilliant, and beautiful Silvia Kensington, the old warrior Brent Mueller, bent but not broken, and others—serve as my Second Foundation characters; the villain—Dimitri Negrini, an evil genius—becomes my Mule. And Swarm returns….

Preface

It’s been a few years since I finished The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy, but it still seems as fresh as ever. It is a grand mix of post-apocalyptic and hard sci-fi as well as space opera and military sci-fi. It takes Humans from an unusual dystopia where chaos reigns supreme, through star colonies and their association with ETs, both friends and foes, and back to near chaos caused by a maniacal Human thirsty for more power. It’s sci-fi, yes, but it’s also a commentary on possible future struggles and victories of sentient lifeforms in near-Earth space.

The entire trilogy covers several centuries of near-Earth history. It is my homage to Isaac Asimov. Unlike that grand master of sci-fi, though, my Universe is populated with ETs, both friends and foes. For the Human protagonists, there are friends and foes among their fellow Humans too. Both ETs and Humans create chaos. I have made every effort to keep the science in the sci-fi plausible, but there are always dangers in extrapolating too far into our future, and these three novels end up there. Characters abound too, even among the ETs.

Through the miracle of ebook technology, you can read the entire trilogy as one massive computer file with a total cost less than the sum of the original ebooks. The novels in this collection have been completely rewritten and reedited just for you, by the way.

Enjoy the stories! I’d love to hear your comments. Use the contact page at my website.

Steven M. Moore

Montclair, NJ

September 2017

Stevenmmoore dot com

The Chaos Chronicles

Main Characters

[Note from Steve: These characters are given in order of their appearance in the trilogy. Many appear in more than one novel.]

Note from Steve:

While some of the events earlier than 2014 could and did happen, this fictional timeline creates an alternate history from then on. I’ve included events from many other novels situated on this timeline, not just those associated with The Chaos Chronicles novels.

Survivors of the Chaos

A Sci-Fi Thriller

Second Edition

Steven M. Moore

Copyright 2011, 2017, Steven M. Moore

All rights reserved.

This second edition has been completely rewritten and reedited. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution was taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

This is a book of fiction set in the future. Although some references may be made to public persons, institutions, places, and real events, these references are only intended to establish a historical backdrop for the fictional story presented herein. Any other names of characters found herein corresponding to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Small portions of this novel can be copied for reviews and other promotional purposes.

Dedication

To the creative thinkers and gifted engineers of NASA’s Apollo program. Like those used by the designers of the pyramids, your skills lifted humanity to even greater heights. That these skills will be lost to the ages is a great human tragedy. Perhaps one day others like you—not robots or probes—will carry the torch of adventure and show the way to the stars.

Part One

Zebediah

To survive it is often necessary to fight and to fight you have to dirty yourself.

– George Orwell

Chapter One

The marauders swept down on Jesse Lane. Wild spirits bent on revenge, even their outlines ill-formed in the snow squall, they used their wide-brimmed hats to pummel their steeds, urging them on towards the rancher.

He knew them well—such gangs were blights on the Midwest. These Devil’s minions preyed on honest farmers and ranchers that tried to scratch out a living in a lawless land. The marauders robbed, raped, maimed, and killed.

Always on the lookout for them, he had killed one of their scouts some years back, but this time events favored them. You need two arms to drag a calf out of a mud hole.

At the sound of the horses’ hooves and the savage yells, he let go of the bawling calf and spun to face them.

There was no time to reach for the rifle stashed in the saddle scabbard on his mare. Their bullets ripped through him. He staggered backwards and nearly fell into the ashy, slick mass that imprisoned the calf.

His horse went wild, reared, and bolted. Two marauders whipped their steeds to give pursuit. Two more lassoed the calf. The other five turned their mounts towards the ranch house.

Please God, be merciful. May Zeb already be there to protect the rest of my family.

Battling pain and the growing darkness of death, he propped himself up on an elbow and watched them ride off. Hats pulled low and slickers streaming in the wind, all soiled and stained by years of weather and neglect, their attire mimicked the souls of his killers.

Souls of the damned!

The leader of the main group carried the infamous square pennant, once white but now equally soiled. They had sewn a red cross to the banner, now faded to pink, that recalled historical origins to a few but more recent bloody savageries to many.

Lane’s strength failed. He eased his head back onto the mud, ready to yield to the darkness.

Some say you see your entire life when you die. He only had the one memory….

***

Jesse Lane listened to his wife’s screams.

How do they do it? How can they stand the pain? And then do it all over again?

He could butcher a cow or a pig, but he couldn’t bear to watch his wife giving birth. He couldn’t stand to see her suffering. He also knew that he wouldn’t be able to tolerate the pain she experienced.

He leaned back in the threadbare chair, closed his eyes, and prayed. His calloused hands gripped the armrests. His muscles tensed and relaxed with every scream.

He wasn’t sure how this thing with God worked, but he was sure going to try to communicate with the Old Fellow. He picked up his Bible, its worn tan leather cover nearly a match for his weathered face. A faded red ribbon marked a favorite passage, the Sermon on the Mount.

This here’s a good woman, Lord, he prayed. You damn well better take care of her. You certainly don’t want to take her yet. She’ll argue with you for eternity.

Abruptly there was silence. His prayer stopped in mid-thought. He probed the silence. He wet his lips and hoped. Had he been too rough with his Lord?

A baby’s cry interrupted his thoughts. Another Lane was born. Mother and son were fine.

They called the boy Zebediah. Family and friends often shortened it to Zeb. Some criticized the name as too egotistical—wasn’t every child a gift of God? Others criticized it as too Old Testament, but Lane knew that the Zebediah that mattered was the father of the apostles John and James.

Moreover, he didn’t much care about what most people thought.

A tall man with a full beard, he managed to look well-dressed even in patched pants and soiled shirt. Through his veins coursed the blood of generations of independent-minded yet God-fearing ranchers. He was poor and proud, a man whose main goal in life was to provide for his family and live in peace with his neighbors.

While many men had a lot to say and others liked to listen, he paid more attention to what the Earth had to say. He was an actor on a stage controlled by weather and seasons, by backbreaking work and long hours. For him, becoming close to the Earth was becoming close to God, for the Earth was God’s gift to man.

***

Zeb Lane turned Jefferson towards home. He and his horse moved against the wind. It was slow going with forty-plus pelts stacked behind the rider. He hunched down to minimize the wind resistance, but Jefferson forged ahead, not needing the help.

It took longer than he thought. He knew his mother would be worried, but he wasn’t about to abuse his horse. Jefferson was a partner in life that he had come to love and respect.

He cursed when it started to snow but then turned his face skyward, asking the Lord’s forgiveness and sucking in some flakes to cure his thirst. The storm would slow them more.

He was not dressed for a storm. Threadbare jeans and a cotton work shirt were not enough to keep him from shivering. It didn’t help that his feet were bare and the jeans were wet from the knee down. He had stashed his boots away in the middle of the pile of pelts and waded out to his beaver traps.

Finally, he could make out some of the distant home lights, shimmering through the light snowfall. Home always looked better embraced by new snow. He felt like one of the kings heading for Bethlehem. He scratched the stubble on his chin and smiled.

I need a heavier beard, I suppose. Like Pa’s.

Abruptly Jefferson reared. Zeb had all he could do to bring the horse under control. He managed to keep the pelts from sliding off.

He saw what was making the stallion skittish. He slid off his mount and approached the still figure on the ground. Already partially covered with snow, Jesse Lane lay on his back, eyes wide open and staring at the sky. The pool of thickening blood by him and the gunshot wounds told the tale of violence.

Sobbing, Zeb dropped to his knees.

Marauders, he thought. They’ve murdered my family!

A terrible coldness gripped his heart, causing it to race with fear of danger and the unknown. He brought his emotions under control, though, replacing the fear with a thirst for revenge that no snowflakes could cure.

He closed his father’s eyes. He struggled to his feet and looked homeward.

Even if I die trying, Lord, help me take some of them with me.

He went to Jefferson and took the heavy pile of pelts off his back. Their value seemed to have vanished in the cold wind. He put them beside his father’s still body. He planned his attack strategy while he put his boots on. He then mounted, removed his rifle from its scabbard, and turned the horse toward the distant lights.

He slowed the horse to a walk and entered the area between the outbuildings and ranch house. Usually the bustling center for many ranch activities, it was now drained of life. When he passed the pen, he noticed the hogs were gone. The same story held for the hens and milk cows in the barn. All was quiet.

He left Jefferson in his barn stall munching some oats, readied his gun, and walked towards the house. Up the gravel path and onto the wide front porch, sweat beading on his forehead in spite of the cold, he found the front door ajar.

Not a good sign. Where is everybody?

He pushed the door open with the barrel of the rifle and peered inside. Nobody. There were signs of struggle everywhere, but the kitchen had suffered the most damage. He frowned upon seeing blood spatters.

Upstairs he found his mother and sister on his parents’ bed. They were naked and their throats were slashed. One of his sister’s legs was twisted at an odd angle, a jagged and bloody bone protruding from the break. Some of his mother’s long, beautiful hair lay loose on the sheets, ripped out by the roots.

The bruises on their bodies and the blood under their nails told him that they had not made it easy for the men who had raped them repeatedly.

He rushed to the hall bathroom. Vomiting and sobbing, he thought he would lose his mind. He sank to the floor. All energy had left him. He was an empty husk. Driving out rational thought, the image of his slaughtered family burned into his brain.

It took him two days to bury them and put the ranch into some semblance of order. He found some loose livestock that had somehow escaped the marauders and secured the animals in the barn with enough feed and water to last for several days.

On the morning of the third day, he secured the main house the best he could, mounted Jefferson, and began his quest. He would hunt the marauders down and kill them.

He hadn’t eaten much in those three days. He was feeding on the raw emotion of revenge.

It was his birthday. He had turned twenty-one.

Chapter Two

The Chair recognizes the Honorable Senator from Mid-Atlantic Pharma. Mr. Martinez, you now have the floor.

Fabio Martinez put his computer tablet on pause and looked up. He didn’t particularly want the floor. The Chair of the Acquisitions Committee was in a meeting room that looked austere, dark, and smelly. He assumed the floor was also dirty and smelly. He rarely appeared at meetings in person for that reason.

His private joke aside, in his office he set about business. Speaking a command to his AI, he took direct control of his avatar as a VR presence at the meeting. Others in the Committee were also present using only their electronic surrogates. They often carried out the business of the Senate of the Mid-Atlantic Union that way.

Yes, the moldy old building is showing its age, he thought, looking at the wood trim and furnishings of the committee room in Philadelphia. It shows that the Union government is broke, but that’s not news. I become rich while it goes broke.

He didn’t like anything about Philly. He preferred to stay secluded in his penthouse in New York unless he was off skiing in either Bariloche or Switzerland. Many thought he was a recluse, but modern corporate CEOs often lived that way. And it saved on security costs.

Philadelphia was the capital of the Union, a country that contained most of Maryland, the old District of Columbia (now in ruins and returning to swamp land), Virginia, Delaware, New Jersey, and the southern portion of the state of New York, including New York City, the commercial capital.

The Union was wealthy as nations went in the world of 2131, its wealth based on pharmaceuticals and electronics. Yet there was a wide range of personal fortunes too, from people like Martinez, who had business interests all over the planet and beyond, to a poor and struggling underclass that lived on the street, many without jobs, healthcare, or food.

Those lucky enough to have jobs often sat in factories twelve to fifteen hours per day performing mundane tasks that were not worth the expense of automation. When they became sick, they often died. Their captors harvested body parts from the good organs before they threw the rest of their bodies into a recycling bin. Hospitals and cemeteries were only for the rich.

Mr. Chairman, I’m willing to meet the Senator from LMRB Technologies half way, he said via his avatar.

LMRB stood for Lockheed-Martin-Raytheon-Boeing. Their Senator represented a company even bigger than Martinez’ GenCorp L.T.D., which owned Mid-Atlantic Pharma. His people had brokered a deal with LMRB.

My constituents will support the bill for the acquisition of ten stealth scramjets if the good Senator will support our request for trials of the new drug Good Times to be carried out on the homeless populations of Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New York City.

That drug might have the benefit of diminishing the tendency for those populations to protest and riot, said the Chair.

Yes, that might be one of the drug’s positive side effects.

Senator? The Chair raised a furry eyebrow, an implicit question for the good Senator from LMRB Technologies.

Works for me, he said.

Martinez looked across at the Senator from WorldNet, his main competitor. Martinez had done her a favor the week before. Denise Andersen nodded without showing any expression on her face.

Works for everybody, thought Martinez. She’s probably screwing her current lover. Completely disinterested in this meeting, she’s leaving everything to the AI-controlled avatar.

Each year Martinez’s company, GenCorp, had profits larger than most countries’ GDP. The subsidiary, Mid-Atlantic Pharma, was hoping that Good Times would be another money producer. Its introductory price would be high. He might reduce the price in the future, but only to increase the volume of sales—he had little concern for the desperate millions of people who needed his drugs.

I practically gave away the AIDS cure. Isn’t that enough charity?

Mid-Atlantic Pharma and the other pharmaceutical companies under the GenCorp umbrella had specialized early in exotic drugs, many of them developed in micro-g environments at the International Space Station, on Farside, and on Phobos, one of the Martian moons. One thing led to another. Now GenCorp was much more than a conglomerate of drug firms, selling everything from plant fertilizers to huge earth-moving equipment.

Its only serious competitors in size were LMRB Technologies, a conglomerate with little in common with GenCorp, and WorldNet, a true competitor in almost everything GenCorp laid its hands on. All three companies, like many other worldwide corporations, had their own security forces to protect themselves against attempts at industrial espionage, unionization, and stealing. Such threats were common, as were protests from the rabble, another threat during the time of the Chaos. Personal security was also needed for the CEOs; kidnappings and assassinations were common.

Born in Argentina, Martinez’ lower middle class parents had possessed limited access to most of the new genetic treatments for their son. While he was as healthy as a pampas bull, his swarthy and hirsute skin and his short, compact, ovoid body made him unattractive to most women. He discovered at an early age that money could buy him about any woman he wanted, though.

Andersen was an exception.

The AI put through a message to his avatar’s tablet that was as virtual as the avatar but more controlled by the AI. Bryce had more candidates. That was good. He made a nice piece of change on that side business. Fortunately, with the Chaos, officials kept poor records, another consequence of the fact that most countries were on the brink of bankruptcy. He had a great deal of freedom to practice his entrepreneurship.

We’re adjourning, said the Chairman after an aide whispered something in his ear. There’s a riot outside. I’d suggest those here physically retreat in the company of their bodyguards. The rest should have your AIs sign off for security reasons.

Martinez frowned. The rabble was becoming more and more vociferous and demanding as the world economy soured. What little order existed was due to private security firms.

That’s why it’s called the Chaos.

He left the VR world and returned to his real office, a secluded workaholic’s retreat that represented about fifteen per cent of the floor area in his New York penthouse. He still found the jump a little disconcerting, but it was a lot better than subjecting himself to protestors. Or dirty rooms and floors.

I’ve always hated crowds, especially those that might be violent. Speaking of which….

I want that asshole Ruffini on the phone, he told the AI. He thinks I’m going to give a speech tomorrow, but I’ll be damned if I’m flying to Gettysburg in this weather and with hostile crowds. He can either figure out how to do an out-of-doors VR or forget about me being there.

Martinez’s AI was already connecting to Ruffini’s AI.

Chapter Three

The marauders made no effort to cover their trail. Following the footprints in the new snow, Zeb Lane headed southeast. The marauders were obviously not worried about him, even if they knew of his existence.

Not hard to figure out if they had looked around. He filled with rage imagining how they’d been concentrated on other things. Please Lord, let me avenge their deaths!

He found other ranches they had plundered and buried the victims.

He also found a young girl that had survived by hiding in a trunk in the cellar of her house. She was malnourished and dying of thirst. He took her to the nearest town where an old doctor promised to do his best.

You trying to catch them bastards? said the doctor.

They killed my parents and my sister. What would you do?

The doctor looked at his daughter, a twelve-year-old, who was sewing buttons on one of his shirts. He shook his head sadly.

She needs me. So does the waif you brought in.

No one needs me, so I plan to hunt them down, or die trying.

The doctor went over to an old wooden desk, opened a drawer, and rummaged around in it. He handed Zeb a leather cartridge belt and holster, a revolver, and several boxes of ammo.

I suspect you’ll need this more than me then. It’s a mite handier than a rifle.

I can’t take it. It cost you a lot of money.

I make a good living. People usually can’t pay much, if anything, but they give me produce and livestock instead of cash. No one much uses cash anymore. I can’t recall when I last seen hard currency. He scratched behind his head as if that would stimulate a memory. There was a time when we paid taxes. The government hired constables to protect us from killers like your marauders. Not anymore. Some damn fools started calling it socialism and attacking it. Certain things just need to get done. He lowered his suspenders and put on the shirt that his daughter had handed to him. The cities are worse, I hear. You be careful, young man.

Zeb’s attention notched upwards. Can you tell me about the cities?

Years earlier, he had asked his father the same question….

***

Jesse Lane received a steaming mug of coffee from his son but continued to stare into the embers of the fire in a way that made Zeb hesitate.

What was it like before, Pa?

Jesse was startled but smiled at his son. The boy’s temerity amused him, but it took some courage to ask.

Maybe we’re too stern with the kids.

Out here someone might kill you for interrupting his daydreams, my boy.

But it’s night, not day, said Zeb with a wink squinted enough that Jesse could see it in the waning firelight.

So it is, son, so it is. Jesse laughed and then became more serious. In this case, though, they be nightmares. Having filtered out some grounds through his mustache and teeth, he spit the coffee residue into the fire. Before what?

Before, like when we were just one country. I heard we stretched from coast to coast.

One big country. Too big, maybe. We weren’t satisfied either. Zeb’s father looked into the darkness, seeing spirits from the past. Always meddlin’ in foreign affairs, practicing something called nation building and not taking proper care of our own problems. I’ve never been to either coast. Can’t say that I want to visit them. Lots of sin in the eastern and western cities.

You mean killings, like here, with the marauders?

Some of that, with gangs everywhere, worse than marauders, but lots of dirty, indecent shit too. Men doing it to men, women to women, and trading partners around like it was some kind of game. Some of those pairings are loving and stable, but they’re still sinful. It’s a wonder the good Lord doesn’t do something about it.

I guess I don’t understand what that means. What people do in privacy’s never worried me much. But I wanted to ask about the cities. Were they full of tall buildings?

I suppose they still are. Don’t know for sure. Out here we don’t receive much news about the rest of the world. He stared at the sky, wondering if that space station was still there. Zeb wouldn’t be able to handle that concept, he figured. I have a hard time myself. The whole shebang broke down, you know. Different parts of the country went their separate ways. People grouped together with others they were comfortable with and parted ways with those who disagreed with them. Sometimes violently. Washington couldn’t hold it together. Not bad by itself, I suppose, but the greatness of the whole country was lost. It is what it is. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Who was Washington?

I’m referring to a place where all the national leaders lived. I guess Washington was also some historical fellow too, but I don’t remember much about him. I left school a long time ago.

At least you could go. I’d like to get schooled and learn things too.

Nothin’ useful in schools, boy. They don’t teach you anything ‘bout runnin’ a ranch. Just useless facts that are mostly lies anyway. Be content with your lot in life. The Lord is good to us.

I know that, Pa. I’m just curious, that’s all.

***

The marauders turned more to the east. Jefferson was stronger than all their horses, so Zeb was gaining ground. He figured he was only a half day behind when he came upon campfire ashes that were still warm.

The weather had turned temperate again. The thin snow cover was gone. Nevertheless, the wind blowing off the prairie had a bite to it that made him keep the collar of his slicker turned up around his neck.

The following morning he found what was left of the marauders. At his parents’ ranch, he had counted nine sets of tracks. Clustered around a fire, its embers still hot, were nine marauders and their steeds, all dead. He walked around the site, shaking his head, trying to figure out what had happened.

The vultures and coyotes had already done good work on the cadavers, but he could see that most of the marauders had many wounds. The same was true of the horses. Even the ground was riddled with bullet holes.

Jefferson, I’d say the Lord’s wrath came down on these devils. How, I don’t know. It’s very strange.

More than perplexed, though, he felt cheated. Someone had done what he had set out to do, yearned to do, in order to avenge his family.

He mounted Jefferson and turned him back the way they had come. It was a lonely ride. The desire for vengeance had kept him going. Now he felt drained, without purpose.

After a long day, he made twilight camp by a small creek. Although the water was only a little above freezing, it was clean. He decided to wash off some of the grime before starting a fire. He stripped to the waist. The cold water on tense and tired muscles offered some relief. It also pumped him full of resolve.

He made an oath to return to the family ranch and make it the best ranch around. He would find a good woman and raise a family, keeping the Lane name alive for many more years. He prayed to the Lord to give him the strength to keep that oath.

A thump-thump-thump in the distance interrupted his thoughts. A running herd of buffalo, all in synchronized step, seemed headed his way.

He ran to Jefferson, removed the rifle from the scabbard, and retrieved from the saddle horn the gun and cartridge belt the old doctor had given him. The sound was now oppressive.

A huge flying machine rose over the crest of a nearby hill. A bright light turned the fading twilight into high noon. The monster machine was painted black along the bottom; the forward part was dark and shiny glass. He could just make out that there were men inside.

Four blades made the thumping noise and whirled around the top. Something like a windmill was on the machine’s tail, spinning so fast it was a blur. Spread along its front were cannons of various sizes. Underneath were sled rails and wheels.

He threw the rifle down and shielded his eyes with his left hand while he waved the pistol skyward, trying to take aim in the glare. A net dropped on him.

He knew all about nets. He used them more in fishing than in trapping. This one was huge and he became entangled. They had designed it to fish for humans.

Chapter Four

Denise Andersen was not happy with the compromise she had brokered with Fabio Martinez. Pleasure, however, sometimes trumps business, even for someone as involved in her business as much as she was, so her dissatisfaction was transient. It helped that she was offline.

While her avatar attended the Committee meeting, she was relaxing in a hot tub in Sydney. It used more water than the average person’s monthly allotment, a luxury whose cost was irrelevant to her. She had been present in the flesh at the opening of a new art museum but was now tired of both people and travel.

It had been good to come, though. Both the Man and Isha Bai were present. She intended to maintain good relations with the U.N.

Her guest for the trip was a Metropolitan opera mezzo-soprano that specialized in the role of Carmen. She was reading a historical novel when Denise joined her in bed.

The next morning, she boarded her personal scramjet and returned to New York City.

***

Andersen was a product of expensive genetic engineering. Her perfect body, unblemished face, and indeterminate racial characteristics were common among the sons and daughters of the rich and famous.

Born into a powerful South Asian family, her parents spared no expense in making her the genetically perfect human being. They raised her in a way that resulted in her thinking she could have anything she wanted. At twenty-five she ousted her CEO father in a bitter corporate takeover and remained on the prowl ever since, building her company to the point where Martinez’s GenCorp faced serious competition.

In spite of her privileged upbringing, she cursed in several languages while she watched the scene that her security cameras had recorded the night before on the eve of her return.

***

A gang had hit one of Andersen’s warehouses in TriBeCa. After killing four security guards, they made off with over twenty million in exotic designer drugs.

Moreover, that was the wholesale price. Their sale to the rich bastards that could still afford a decent healthcare plan would be worth many millions more.

She pounded her desk. Her Chief of Security Peter Bradford, accustomed to her tantrums, patiently watched old-fashioned pens and pencils jump up and down. He waited for her to say something.

When she finally turned off the video monitor with a voice command, Bradford sighed. He knew what was coming.

I’m not going to miss those guards, she told him. They must have been incompetent. Why in the hell did you hire them?

They were all tempered under fire in the N.Y.P.D., he said.

He knew she was never content with what modern gene splicing gave her. Instead of her mother’s long blond hair, she shaved her head, except for the fashionable two tufts over her ears.

The diamond hanging from her nose wasn’t artificial, but it wasn’t ostentatious either. A tight fitting jerkin accentuated her cleavage and contrasted with the baggy, multicolored pants that she had tucked into calf-high fake seal leather boots. This was no bow to animal rights people—this particular seal was extinct. A matching belt carried a taser on the left and a vibrablade on the right.

N.Y.P.D.? N.Y.P.D.? He watched the redness creep from her breasts, up her neck, and into her face, making it all the uniform hue of unbridled anger. Cops are targets for gangs nowadays. Is that what you mean by tempered under fire? The last question was a scream.

She stood and waggled her finger at him. She was five centimeters taller than Bradford was and he was not short. He figured she would intimidate anyone.

These were all good men, he said.

And now I suppose their families will all receive good life insurance payouts. She walked over to the office windows overlooking the East River. In the pregnant silence he could hear her breathing return to a more normal state. Somehow I have to figure out a way to stop this. It happens too often.

We do everything that is possible within the law and a bit that is questionably legal besides. I’m at a loss. We need fresh ideas.

Here’s one. Let’s work outside the law for a change. What’s wrong with that? Other countries don’t pussyfoot around with these criminals. Why should we?

Because some of your operations are in the Mid-Atlantic Union. Moreover, like Fabio Martinez, you enjoy certain privileges with the U.N. Space Agency.

The privileges come because I fund a lot of their operations. And it’s not just the R&D that benefits me. But, back to my question: can we go the vigilante route?

We could try. You already spy on Martinez to gather intel about what he’s doing.

I’m sure he’s doing the same or worse to me. Right now, I think he’s pulling a fast one on Farside, but I can’t figure out what. The authorities don’t know about any of it.

They probably suspect but don’t really care.

She went to him and looked into his eyes. Once they had been lovers, she a precocious college student, he her father’s man. However, she had grown tired of him.

She grabbed his genitals and squeezed. When he winced, she let go, laughing.

I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t become a dickless wonder, love. She walked to the desk and sat. Now go away. I believe I have come up with a solution, so I must think about its detailed implementation.

I can help with that.

Oh, you will. Or you’ll be wishing you were one of those security guards.

Bradford turned and left her to her scheming.

***

Bradford’s office was nearly the size of Andersen’s. It hadn’t changed when she grew tired of him. He had secure lines that she didn’t know about.

She’s up to something, he said into a videophone.

No picture transmitted, none received. The voice signal was encoded with a key that was decipherable by only the newest quantum computers. There was not much chance that anyone listening in would have one of those—they were still experimental.

She’s always up to something, came the reply. So am I. Why is this any different?

She’s going to try something illegal to stop the pilfering.

Illegality is always relative. They sanction murder in several new countries to keep down the population. Who’s going to say what she’s doing is illegal?

Since I don’t know what it is, I don’t know who would say it. Probably the Mid-Atlantic Union?

Probably not. Ruffini knows who’s keeping him afloat. It would have to be something egregious where the rabble needs a scapegoat. Keep me posted, though. This could be amusing.

Bradford had done his duty with his second and more important employer. Now I need to look out for myself. How can I learn what she’s planning? Something about vigilantes, she had said. He didn’t like that idea. He wouldn’t have any control over vigilantes.

Chapter Five

The men strapped him in a chair. Muscles rippling, he strained at the leather bonds. One of the men laughed at his struggles, so Zeb spit in his face. The man punched him. The blow split his lip. Blood started to drip down onto his bare chest.

Wilson, don’t damage the goods!

Zeb was pleased but otherwise surprised when their leader stepped out of the shadows. They called him Bryce. He used Zeb’s rifle to club Wilson. The giant fell and cowered at Zeb’s feet.

Bryce was the leader. He bossed the pilot of the helicopter, the name of the machine that had swooped down on Zeb. He also led the rest of the group. They didn’t need a bath as much as Wilson did, who even smelled of urine, but they weren’t presentable for Sunday services either.

Zeb had learned that these men killed the marauders.

They stole my revenge; now they steal my freedom.

Bryce patted him on the cheek.

A young Apollo, my boys. Look at him! Lots of good, healthy farm food and fine fresh, country air went into making him. Mr. Martinez will make a nice profit. He kicked at Wilson’s ribs, who whimpered and scooted away on all fours. We can’t sell damaged goods, you idiot! He waved something that looked like a gun close to Zeb’s face. "Now, Monsieur Zebediah Lane, you are mine to sell, trade, or barter, as legal representative of Fabio Martinez. The others, excepting Wilson, guffawed. This little instrument will make it so. It’s not a gun, but it will hurt like hell if you move. He winked at Zeb. I’m going to put it against your left shoulder. If you stay nice and still, you will experience a slight needle-like prick. Do you understand?"

Zeb nodded. When Bryce shot the gun, Zeb still strained once more against the leather. As promised, his shoulder hurt like hell.

Not surprising among you inbred Neanderthals that you have muscles for brains too. Bryce tossed the instrument to one of the men. I will explain what I did, Mr. Lane, but only once. If you ever think of escaping and you happen to succeed, what is in your shoulder will allow us, or anyone in Mr. Martinez’s employ, to hunt you down. I know it’s hard for you to grasp the concept, but that’s what it does. It’s more powerful magic, like the helicopter.

What did you mean when you said that I am yours to sell?

Just that, idiot. I know these aren’t foreign concepts to you. You ranchers do it all the time with your livestock. Consider yourself my livestock now. He winked at the other men. They all laughed again. There’s some rich person in New York City who’s going to fall in love with all those muscles. Bryce squeezed Zeb’s biceps. Not to mention your package.

While the rest was a mystery, Zeb did understand the concept of livestock….

***

You want a horse, son, you gotta earn it. What you offerin’ me?

Zeb looked at his father, half hidden in the glare of the red orb on the horizon, his long hair blowing in the cold wind from the north. Lane’s mare shuffled back and forth, the vapor from her nostrils streaming out like some ancient dragon’s breath.

I can do a lot more trappin’, Pa. There’s a big demand for real furs for the rich folk in St. Louis. I figure the dealers will take all I can deliver.

Jesse Lane dismounted. He handed the reins to Zeb.

Not a bad idea. You’re good at finding the right places to lay your traps. But I need you to keep up with your other work, too. Your sister and mother have all they can do around the ranch house.

I can do all that needs to get done. Just name it. I only have to stretch my day a little.

OK, I’ll see what I can do. There’s an auction in three weeks down in Cheyenne. You and I will take a little ride down there on Sally. Maybe you’ll come back with me riding on a new steed. But right now take this old mare to her barn and make her comfy for the night while I scout out what your Ma is cookin’ for dinner.

Zeb led the mare away while his father walked towards the house.

The trip to Cheyenne was an epiphany for Zeb. He had never seen so many people at one time together in one place. They had mounted huge video screens above the auction floor so people could see the livestock and the bids on them no matter where they sat. He had never seen even one TV before.

Believe it or not, this is nothing, said Jesse. They sat high in the bleachers that surrounded one of the livestock auction corrals. World’s probably still full of too many people. They just ain’t here, that’s all. Many are on our two coasts. I don’t know about the rest. Used to be slant-eyes numbered in the billions. Don’t know if they still do. Don’t really care.

Slant-eyes?

Chinks. Japs. All them Asian people.

Why are they called slant-eyes?

Jesse used two index fingers to pull up the corner of his eyes.

’Cause they look like that. I suppose they’re God’s people too, but there were billions of them, and they owned America.

America?

Our whole country was called the United States of America. It fell apart because we weren’t united enough, I guess. Jesse pointed to the arena. Now there’s a spirited one.

The conversation changed to horses when the auction began. The fat woman on the left side of Jesse participated enthusiastically. The older man waited patiently.

What about that one? Zeb asked once.

He has a lazy look to him, son. You don’t want a lazy steed. We’re workin’ people.

The tenth horse attracted his father’s attention. It was taller than the average and a little skittish.

Know anything about that one? Jesse asked the woman.

Comes from Parker’s ranch. Ken Parker saddle-broke him. Looks a little wild to me still, but Ken generally does a good job.

I heard that the horse went lame a while back. Ken must be a good nurse too.

You don’t say.

The woman didn’t bid on the horse. Two others did, along with Jesse. Zeb’s father won the bid.

When they went down the bleachers to claim the horse, Zeb muddled over a new concept.

I guess it’s all right to lie when you want a good horse, right Pa?

I didn’t lie. It’s part of bartering. I made her think that the young horse wasn’t as good as she might have thought originally. The horse did go lame while back. That’s no big deal, but she thought so. If she really wanted him, she would have bid. So, truth be told, she really didn’t want him. He clutched at Zeb’s shoulder, nearly at the level of his own now, although the boy was only fifteen. Wha’cha going to name him, boy?

Jefferson. I think there was someone important named Jefferson once. I like the name.

Actually, he was one of the first presidents of the United States of America. I can’t remember which one, but he wrote something called the Declaration of Independence.

Would he be insulted to have a horse named after him?

Jesse Lane laughed in his deep baritone.

Well, I think you’ll just have to ask him when you meet him beyond those Pearly Gates.

***

They left Zeb alone with Wilson. He wondered if the man would try something, considering that Bryce had embarrassed him. Instead, he became talkative.

I guess you’re wondering what’s happening to you? he said to Zeb. There was a light but cold breeze still whipping through the room, but he was upwind from the slovenly giant.

You think? Am I just cattle to you people?

To Bryce, maybe. And not cattle. More like a stallion. You have family?

I did. The marauders killed them all.

No shit! I’d hunt the bastards down and kill them. What we’re doing to you is nothing in comparison.

Zeb strained at his bonds. They had strapped them on wet, so the leather was cinching up tight as it dried.

I did go after them. You fellows killed them.

Oh, those. We always take out them bastards when we can. They’re animals.

No argument there, said Zeb, feeling the irony. Can you loosen the straps a little? They’re cutting off my circulation.

Wilson checked and confirmed that. He started to adjust the bonds one by one. Zeb went into action when his right arm came free. A hardened fist hit Wilson in the solar plexus, taking the air right out of him. A mighty right cross paid him back for the earlier encounter. He went down for the count.

Zeb struggled to loosen the bonds on his left hand and feet, but soon he was free of the chair. He went to the door of the small room and peered out. A darkened corridor looked like it might lead to freedom. Still shirtless, he hurried to the door at its end, opened it, and looked out across a desolate landscape filled with rundown buildings and iron rails crisscrossing on the ground.

He wondered what happened to Jefferson. Without the horse, he wouldn’t stand a chance of putting distance between him and his captors. I’ll have to kill them! He went from building to building, working his way across the area.

Hold it!

He froze. One of Bryce’s men had a rifle pointed at him.

Smart ass, aren’t you? Bryce!

The leader exited one of the buildings Zeb had already passed, rubbing his eyes but furious in spite of his sleepiness.

Where’s Wilson?

Another of Bryce’s men went to fetch Zeb’s guard. The man was still groggy from Zeb’s punch.

Idiot! Bryce shook him. You almost lost this month’s best take. You are one royal fuck-up.

Sorry, said Wilson. It won’t happen again.

Bryce drew his revolver and shot Wilson between the eyes.

You’re damn right it won’t! The others laughed but quieted when Bryce glowered at them. Any of you that fucks up will get the same treatment. He went back to his cabin.

Chapter Six

Cal, I’ve known you for a few years now. I trust and value your opinions. How likely is it that these accidents are unrelated?

Calvin Fuller, head of U.N.S.A. Security’s Farside Office, watched his friend Jenny Wong swing into her Yoga position, head on a thick pillow, feet and legs resting easily against the gym’s wall. Her only attire was a monokini and an old U.S. silver dollar that usually rested between her breasts. It now rested on the pillow.

He was used to his friend’s idiosyncrasies. While Looney attire was informal, the more rigid Downy customs and religions still influenced Looney society. Scientists and support staff came and went, especially to Farside, where many projects and even some industries took advantage of the lighter gravity or the absence of light pollution from Earth.

The two of them were from Mars—neither Downy nor exactly Spacer. Martian living was even more informal and was more in tune with a completely controlled artificial environment than Farside’s.

Fortunately, I’m a happily married man, Fuller said. Other Loonies might find this distracting. If you did this in Times Square, you’d most certainly start a riot.

She laughed. And who would start it? The men or the women?

Given New York City, hard to tell.

You should be used to it. Any ideas in regard to my question?

***

While Fuller hesitated, Wong’s thoughts returned to her childhood on Mars….

Jenny, Jenny, where are you?

She left the small room that served as the family bedroom for three people and study area for her.

I’m doing my homework, Mother.

Come! China Inc. is no more. There is rioting.

Here? On Mars?

The family had been listening for some time to the news that the infamous Chinese empire, that juggernaut of unrestrained fascist capitalism, was imploding. Multiple regions were declaring their independence. The split roughly corresponded to languages—the English of Hong Kong, the Mandarin of the north, the Cantonese of the south, and the Mongolian of the plains. However, there were even smaller divisions based on dialects of these major languages.

To Jenny it seemed like the gods had dropped an expensive porcelain bowl from some ancient Chinese dynasty, causing it to be shattered into pieces.

Her mother straightened the collar that covered her neck and patted down the rest of the gray, drab uniform she wore, habits long ago acquired in their haste to fit in as immigrants in the straight-laced society of China’s most important colony. Jenny knew that to her way of thinking the planet had gone mad.

Jenny’s father rushed through the door, stopping when he saw them standing there.

Please, what are you doing? We must leave. The rioting is more widespread. There are casualties. Do you understand? We must leave. People are already filling the tunnels in panic.

Why add to it then? said Jenny. She assumed a martial arts pose. I am ready to defend us.

Her mother laughed. You cannot stop them, Mei-Xing. It’s like when someone yells ‘fire!’ in a theater. The mob has a mind of its own. But where will we go? The last question was directed at her husband.

The university compound. I know some safe places. Hurry.

They were soon on their way, running when they could, but most of the time pushing through the flow of the crowds. Jenny was amazed at their actions.

Old timers were even stripping off their company uniforms and dancing in their underwear with the younger Martians. Many of the latter were completely naked. Her mother covered Jenny’s eyes as they hurried by public orgies. Fights broke out when men went after women, men after men, and women after women. Emotions unleashed after decades of Puritan control trumped rational thought at every turn in the corridors.

Some corridors mercifully had lights knocked out. In others, someone would try to attack her mother. Her father did a good job of defending his wife, but Jenny also contributed.

At the university, her father had to beg to gain entry. The various levels of the university compound were calm and quiet compared to the craziness they had left behind.

Are we safe here? said Jenny.

We can only hope, said her father.

***

Fuller studied his colleague for a moment. She was a tall woman, her perfect figure hiding a muscle tone that was a weapon in itself. She looked to be more Latino than Chinese, her facial expressions at times carrying some of that intriguing indigenous mystery of a Bolivian or Peruvian.

Their common past, when the tsunami from the Chaos hit Mars, was nearly irrelevant. He decided he was more Looney now than Martian. He wasn’t so sure about Wong.

The world is such a melting pot now. And we’re the better for it.

The epicanthic fold of his eyes was more pronounced than hers. Yet his name was Fuller. The correlation between race and names was becoming weaker as decades marched by. There were still bigots and racists, but most people largely ignored those with mental perturbations.

I’m not a great believer in coincidences, Fuller finally said. One of the accidents has to be murder.

I’m here to think out of the box, so let me do so. She flipped out of the Yoga position with a push of her hands. She landed nimbly on her feet as if she were an Olympic gymnast, not easy to do even in the low gravity. I need to connect to a work station that has access to all your databases.

All? Even the scientific stuff?

"Especially that. You know I’m cleared for everything dealing with U.N.S.A. I want to